


Wingdings

by aimmyarrowshigh, spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: Radio 1 RPF, Union J (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, SIGH., fake dietician au?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy says the summary should be, "spoiler: the smoothies are not made of people."  A story about fruit, fonts, and fake dieticians.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wingdings

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: None.  
> Disclaimer: We don't own anything. No claim of knowledge or veracity is made towards anyone in the story and no aspersions or claims of character are to be inferred. We have no connection nor permissions from X-Factor, Crown Management, RCA, Sony, ITV, the BBC, Radio One, or AlphaDog Management. No libel intended.

**_Wingdings_ **

There's a man in Flat 12A who George is a bit obsessed with.

He's not even really sure why. It's not like the man -- Nick, George has heard him called -- is the most attractive person in the building. He thinks that distinction might go to the boy with the curly hair and the green eyes on the first floor. 

There's just something about the Nick guy that George really _likes_ , when he sees him by lingering outside the front doors for a cigarette, his ridiculous hairstyle flopping in the breeze, or when he sees Nick talking to someone down the hall from George almost entirely with his hands. There's something about Nick that makes George want to pay attention to him.

"That's called a crush, love," Jaymi tells him, listlessly turning the page of the magazine he's reading with nary a care for George's problems. "I say you give him a good ride or two and get it out of your system."

George squawks at that and hops around for a minute before he flops onto the sofa, exhausted. (He really ought to get in shape. Maybe he'll start taking the stairs at work tomorrow. No, he won't, but the motivation to start probably deserves cake.)

"Oh, don't be like that, dear." Jaymi pats vaguely in George's direction, his eyes still on his magazine. "I just think, you know, if you're going to go on about him all the time, you should probably speak to him once or twice."

"I don't even know what he does," George protests. "Besides his hair. I mean, do you think he even cares about fonts?"

"Nobody cares about fonts," says Jaymi, his voice flat. To be fair, George has never met anybody other than himself who cares particularly one way of another about fonts, but Jaymi could pretend a bit. "Please, do me one favor, if you want to get laid, do not under any circumstances start a conversation about fonts."

"But they're sexy," George says. "They have curves and... serifs. I love a good serif. You can kern all night long. These are the lines that make me so popular at the firm, James. I'm very good at flirting."

Jaymi flicks another page of his magazine. "That you are, surprisingly," he says. "But trust me on this one. Don't talk about fonts. I know you, you do go on about the fonts."

George rolls over and tucks his head under Jaymi's arm so he can languish in unrequited pain across Jaymi's lap. The corner of the magazine is poking him in the eye, and Jaymi doesn't seem keen to move it. "I just want to be Alejandro Paul."

"No one knows who that is," Jaymi insists. "Get off my lap with your face, I'm trying to read. Go make me a smoothie with the juicer we can't afford. You said you'd use it, and you never do."

George sighs with as much sadness as he can muster. "Do you think the Nick man likes juicers? More than fonts, I mean? Maybe I could strike up a conversation about vegetable juice, do you think that would work?"

"No," Jaymi says. "Well, maybe, but it wouldn't work on me. Don't put vegetables in my smoothie. That's just unnatural."

George blinks with big eyes. "It's _literally_ the opposite of unnatural."

"Expert on unnatural things, aren't you?" Jaymi prods George's forehead. "Go make me a smoothie. No vegetables. Maybe something with chocolate." He seems to think for a moment. "Definitely with chocolate."

George slithers off the sofa and plods to the kitchen to make smoothies. The juicer had seemed like such a good idea when he bought it; he'd designed the packaging for this model and it was so pretty and shiny and the plastic fruit on the box looked so tasty, even though George doesn't actually love fruit that much. That curly-haired man on the first floor is literally always eating fruit, every time George has ever seen him. He'd think that's what made him so pretty if George didn't also find himself quite pretty, and weren't such an expert on his own lack of fruit consumption.

Maybe it's just owning a juicer? Someone who eats so much fruit must own a juicer, and George owns a juicer, so... so that's probably it. Owning juicers makes pretty people.

Maybe Nick man owns a juicer. Maybe George could make him juice with Nick's juicer, in Nick's apartment, with Nick.

"Stop daydreaming about your bloke and make me a smoothie!"

Right. Smoothie for Jaymi.

"There's only Bloody Mary mix in the fridge!" George calls. "And some ice cream. It's chocolate; do you still want the smoothie?"

"Don't make me a chocolate Bloody Mary smoothie, are you trying to kill me?" Jaymi has apparently finished his magazine as he swings into the kitchen and hops up onto the counter. He wrinkles his nose at George. "Might as well just eat the ice cream if it's there, then. It's kind of like a solid-y smoothie, yeah?"

"I might make the smoothie anyway," George says, pensively reading the back of the Bloody Mary mix. "Tomato's a fruit. It'd taste fine with chocolate. Probably there are tomato ganache chocolates. And there's vitamins and that. It won't be so bad." He stares at the juicer. "Although this is already juice, isn't it? Can you juice juice?"

"You pose an interesting philosophical question." Jaymi takes off his glasses to carefully place them on George's nose. "Are we going to have to pop off to the shops to get something to juice? Only I'm in the mood now to juice things."

"We should," George agrees. "And on the way, I think I left... something... on the roof. And we ought to go the long way to the lifts. To the fourth floor. And then back down again. To go to the shops."

Jaymi sighs heavily. "If we're going to do all that, then we might as well just ask your dreamboat if _he's_ got any fruit. Or that fruit cherub, now I'm thinking of it. He's probably got fruit trees in his flat."

"He probably has," George agrees. "But I'd be allergic. Now come along, it's nearly half-six, and that's when--people... sometimes... might... smoke on the roof. After tea."

"Oh, right, I'd somehow forgotten that's a thing _people_ do," says Jaymi. "Alright, but then you're asking if _people_ 's got fruit; I'm not getting out of this without my smoothie."

"Fine, fine, fine!" George agrees, hopping from foot to foot. "Now get your cigarettes so I don't look like a stalker!"

"You _are_ a stalker," Jaymi grumbles, but he does get his cigarettes from the sofa and tucks them into his pocket, because he's lovely.

And, probably, because he wants a smoke.

"Oh, would you look who it is?" asks Jaymi under his breath when they open the door to the roof to see Nick's lanky body folded up in a lean against the far edge of the rooftop. "Imagine that. How coincidental."

George hisses something that's half-giggle and half-Parseltongue and pinches Jaymi hard right in the kidney.

"I will light you on fire," Jaymi threatens, but that's just Jaymi for 'I love you', George thinks. Jaymi lights a cigarette, anyway, so they don't look like stalkers.

"Hello." Nick gives them a little wave. Speaking to them in the process. George could be in love. "Nice night, innit?"

George makes a gosling noise behind his glasses, so Jaymi blows a plume of smoke from his nose and says, "Yeah, nice. The smog looks lovely from up here."

That makes Nick laugh a wrinkle-nosed laugh that George is also in love with. There are so many things happening all the time. "Do me a favor and don't tell Harry I'm up here if you run into him, I told him I was quitting 'cause he worries ever so about my health. Always trying to feed me fruits."

"Oh, is his name Harry?" Jaymi asks. He flicks some ash. "We were actually on our way to the shop to buy fruit, weren't we, George?" He shoulders George hard in the almost-shoulder. It's not his fault that he's a few inches taller than Jaymi, but Jaymi really could use some shoulder pads. Bony little fellow. " _Weren't we, George_?"

"We were," comes out of George's mouth. Oh god, he's speaking in Nick's presence. "Yeah, we eat fruit all the time. So healthy, really, we've got a juicer. Have you got a juicer? We have." Oh, god, he's never speaking in Nick's presence again.

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Have you really? I thought only Jillian Michaels and dieticians owned juicers."

"I'm a dietician!" is the next thing that comes out of George's mouth, which is ridiculous, because _he's not a dietician_ , which is exactly what Jaymi's saying to him with his eyes.

Unfortunately, Nick looks intrigued, now, by the thought of George being a dietician. Oh, no. "Really, are you? Been looking for one of you, and it turns out there's one right in my building! Imagine the odds!"

"Yes, imagine the odds," agrees Jaymi, staring in bewildered confusion at George. "Imagine them."

"Not bad odds, comparatively," George says, "I mean, you could live in the same building as... a--as a, erm, paleontologist. Like Friends. That seems less likely. Or, erm, theoretical particle physicist, like The Big Bang Theory. Also seems less likely." George frowns. "Television shows are _really implausible_ , aren't they?"

"That's what I say." Nick gestures toward George with his cigarette, raising his eyebrows. "I'm always telling Harry, like, what are the chances that six people who are _that_ attractive are all friends, you know? And they're all somehow making enough money to live in New York City. And the show's about how they've got _problems_. Not realistic at all." He shakes his head.

"Is it harder to live in New York City than in London?" George asks.

"I'd imagine so." Nick blows smoke out the corner of his mouth. "I've got a mate lives in New York, she says it's mental. S'pose most things are mental over there, though."

"Well, they let people own monkeys and chickens and ducks in the flats!" George exclaims. "It's bound to be mental! We can't even have fish."

"Yes, we can," Nick says. "Anything in a tank."

George's head whips around to glare at Jaymi. "You said we can't have fish."

"I said _you_ can't have fish," Jaymi corrects. He stubs out his cigarette on the railing around their rooftop.

"I want a fish," George mutters, his eyes narrowed at Jaymi. "I could totally take care of a fish. I'd let you name it!"

Jaymi sniffs. "Then you shouldn't have mentioned how many hamsters you've killed in your lifetime."

"I've never killed a hamster!" George assures Nick, wide-eyed. "They all died of natural causes."

Thankfully, Nick just looks amused. He mostly looks amused, in George's experience. "What sort of natural causes are we talking about here? I didn't even know hamsters could die of natural causes. What, old age? Do they have little hamster wheelchairs?"

"No, just regular hamster wheels," George says. "They ran a lot, right up until the end."

"Admirable," Nick agrees. "Is that the sort of thing I ought to be doing, in your dietician expertise? Bearing, I'm old and sedentary and I smoke."

"Probably should stop smoking?" What would a dietician say? Well, most people agree that smoking's bad for you, that can't be _bad_ advice. "Maybe, er. Jog?"

"Is that all you need to tell people to be a dietician?" Nick asks. "'Jog.' I'm pretty sure a bird told me that today."

"Well, I don't know your daily regimen, do I?" George retorts. _Stop talking, stop talking_. "I can't give you my expert opinion if I don't know anything about you. What'd you have for breakfast today?"

"Cuppa," Nick says. "And a cigarette. I did have a salad for lunch! But it was salamagundi. Does that still count?"

"No," George replies, and it might count, but probably not. "No, that doesn't still count. You need, like, fruits and things, a well-rounded meal for each meal. And _jogging_ ," he adds with emphasis. Fuck it, jogging is a good suggestion.

"Right, with the jogging. I don't really... move." Nick flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. "Could probably be convinced to if I had the right sort of motivation." If George isn't imagining things -- which he might be, he does that sometimes -- then Nick's eyes just gave him a fairly good once-over.

"George could go with you," Jaymi says innocently. "Before work, after work. Late at night, get that heart rate up. Blood flowing through the extremities."

"Right, bloodflow." George seizes upon Jaymi's words, giving him a grateful blink. "Exactly. Good for the limbs and that."

"Sounds great!" exclaims Nick. "I'll be there with bells on. I've got radio in the morning, but after that I usually sleep or watch bad television, so I'm free all day unless Harry's over."

"Er, I work... normal hours," George says. "Normal for a dietician hours. I can see you after--what do you mean, you have radio in the morning?"

Nick bats his eyes at George. "My mother always told me I had the perfect face for radio, so I became a deejay. I'm quite good, you should try to catch the show sometime."

"I should," George agrees. "I can listen whilst I am supervising people's diets. Or jogging."

He can practically feel Jaymi's eyeballs rolling in their sockets.

"Well, we really must be off, fruit and all," Jaymi says, tugging on George's arm. "Lovely talking to you. George'll see you after morning sometime, tomorrow sound good?"

"Sounds good to me," George chirrups, grinning because that might be incentive. He has received many good things in exchange for a grin in his lifetime.

Nick seems vaguely mesmerised. That's got to be good. "Yeah, perfect. I'm in 12A, just knock and I'll drag myself to the door."

George nods and lets Jaymi pull him away before he says anything stupid like _I know, I've watched you go in the door_ or _can I move in?_.

"George, I don't know if it's escaped your notice, but _you are not a dietician_ ," Jaymi hisses once they're in the elevator. "You live off digestive biscuits and coffee."

"And I'm thin," George argues, "And I can take the stairs if I want to without getting winded much. There's a lot of stairs, is all."

"You nearly made a chocolate ice cream Bloody Mary smoothie not twenty minutes ago!" Jaymi looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "You are not qualified to give anyone advice about anything that doesn't have serifs!"

"I can do sans serifs, too!" George contests, and then realizes, no, not the point at all.

"George," is all Jaymi says to him, with a stern look. "You're very lucky that I am all aboard the get-George-laid train."

" _Just help me buy fruit_ ," George begs, clinging into Jaymi's side and tucking his face against the curve of Jaymi's neck.

Jaymi sighs so hard George thinks he might've knocked over a few trees if they were outside. "Alright. But, I think you owe me. Put in a good word for me with your guy about his hot friend."

"I will, anything," George says. "I'll even mention that thing you can do when you eat ice lollies."

"Oh, good, that'll definitely get me high marks." Jaymi seems pleased enough, so George is pretty sure he's alright with George being a fake dietician.

It can't be that hard, anyway. It's just common sense, isn't it? Lean meats and such. Fruit. Probably vegetables that aren't already juice and made to be mixed with vodka.

No vodka, George imagines. Probably not any alcohol at all. Except, what's that people say about a glass of wine before bedtime? Oh, George isn't a dietician at all, is he?

"Jaymi," George asks pensively as they leave their building and are buffeted by softly warm, pleasant June evening air. It's rather nice out now that George's face isn't being accosted by smoke at all angles. "Is wine healthy or unhealthy?"

"Good for the soul." Jaymi taps the pack of cigarettes in his pocket thoughtfully. George hopes he doesn't decide to have another one. He's only just started being able to breathe again.

"Right, but do you need the soul to live?" George asks. "Not in a philosophical way."

"Well, fuck, Georgie, I don't know, I'm not a dietician or a philosopher or whatever." Jaymi waves a hand. "Life's better when alcohol's in it."

"I guess that makes it healthy," George agrees. "And it's made of grapes. So, there's that."

"Yeah, it's basically a fruit," Jaymi says happily. "We could have fruit smoothies: wine and a different kind of wine."

"We should get wine," George agrees. "With our fruit and things to juice in the juicer." He pauses. "Do you suppose Nick'll expect me to have abs?"

"You've got an ab." Jaymi pokes George's stomach, encouraging. "I've seen it before."

"Yeah, but just the one," George says, "And it's like, _under_ my bellybutton. That's weird, isn't it? Maybe it's actually a hernia. Don't poke it; I might die. What if Nick expects me to be basically totally ripped?"

Jaymi rolls his eyes. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. "George. Trust me. Anybody who looks at your face is going to want to fuck you. Like, you've _seen_ you, right?"

"Right, that's why I'm worried," George says. "Maybe I actually should finish a sit-up tonight."

"Right, right." Jaymi pats his back. "And then you can have some cake, as a reward."

"I will," George agrees. He opens the door to Tesco and lets Jaymi pass by him. "But only a small piece."

"A very small piece. Lovely little reward." Jaymi appears thoughtful, scanning the front of the store. "D'you suppose you can juice cake?"

George blinks.

He doesn't know.

But he's going to try.

"Cake smoothie night!" Jaymi cheers, hooking his arm with George's. "Sounds like a plan!"

(It is a horrible plan. The interior of the juicer gets all gummed with frosting.)

But at least they used it for something, and now they know: cake is a no-go when it comes to juicing. It's a good thing they got fruit as well.

George is up until all hours washing out the juicer, because really the _last_ thing he needs is to food-poison Nick From Flat 12A, and then he's a slug all day at work.

He most certainly does not take the stairs. And he eats a double fish and chips for lunch.

But in his expert dietician opinion, life is nothing without a splurge every now and again.

He frets about what to wear for jogging with the object of your affections for far too long, and Jaymi's no help, rolling around laughing on George's bed while George is trying to decide what color shorts to wear and whether his knees are too knobbly for shorts.

"They're _knees_ , darling," Jaymi wheezes. "Nobody's got shapely _knees_!"

"I bet Nick's got shapely knees," grumbles George. "I bet curly boy from the first floor's got shapely knees."

"He hasn't," Jaymi assures him. "I've seen him go actually jogging before in actual jogging shorts."

"Who's stalking who?" George asks, rhetorically, because he knows he's definitely the one stalking Nick. "Anyway, I don't even know if I've got shorts for jogging. Aren't there special jogging shorts?"

"There's compression shorts. They keep your bits in so they aren't flopping about all unattractively."

"My bits are going to flop around!" George moans, dropping onto his bed and giving Jaymi his best sad look. "He's going to think I've got, I've got floppy-bits syndrome or something! He'll talk about me on radio!"

"Yeah, well, so four people will hear about your floppy little bits on some podcast," Jaymi says dismissively. "He'd talk about your floppy little bits eventually anyway, if your face does... that thing your face does to people."

"Which it will," George says.

"Which it will," Jaymi agrees.

"So I should just wear normal person shorts?" George asks, rubbing his chin in thought. "And hope my face distracts him from my bits?"

"That's what I'd do," Jaymi says. He rolls off George's bed and starts padding his way to the kitchen. "I'm going to make a sausage roll. D'you want one?"

"Make mine with extra, um, what's something that's good for you?" George hollers. "Can you put tofu on my sausage roll?"

"Nope!" Jaymi calls back. "Sacrilege! I'll give you extra catsup; it's made of tomatoes."

"That's a fruit, that's allowed! I'm a dietician!"

He waits until he hears Jaymi, faintly, shout back "No you're not!" before he changes into his shorts and t-shirt. He stares down at his bits for a moment. Maybe he should wear something other than boxers underneath? No, no, he'll just wear the shorts, he's got the boxers on, and Nick should theoretically be looking at his face.

Twenty minutes later, after some practice jogs up and down the flights of stairs between his own floor and Nick's, George thinks maybe he should have something to offer besides his red, sweaty face.

All he has is the face, really, but maybe Nick likes young sweaty flushed people? He seems like he might, though George likes the people he hangs out with to be mostly less sweaty and probably smelling a bit nicer than George is at the moment.

Whatever. It'll be fine. Dieticians are probably often sweaty, what with their persistent exercise and healthy amounts of hydration and such.

Oh, god, George doesn't hydrate well at all. He should start. How long is he going to pretend to be a dietician? Maybe forever. Oh, no.

He's somehow caught a case of the hiccups by the time he's knocked on Nick's door and is awaiting an answer.

Does talking to hiccups make them go away? George is muttering to them when he hears the footsteps approaching the door, so he hopes that it does, and that it works by the time that door opens.

Instead, as soon as the door opens, George unleashes an almighty squeaky hiccup. It's so strong it lifts him off his toes a little.

Nick blinks at him. "Well, I guess that's one way to say hello. Hiya. D'you want to come in, I'll be ready in two seconds, just had a kip on the couch."

"Wa- _hic_ -ter?" George asks. He hiccups again. "Have to--hydrate--before the big--run!"

"Right, water, hydration, I've heard about all that." Nick gestures with a hand toward his kitchen. "Comes out of the tap in there. Might have a bottle or two in the fridge, but I'll be honest, it might be vodka."

"That's not--good for--running," George pants.

"Yeah, so probably your safest bet's the tap!" Nick calls. He's in his room now. Probably changing. George does his best not to think about that lest his hiccups get worse.

Nick's flat is nice. It's basically the same as George's flat, which shouldn't be surprising but is, a bit. It's very sparse. George would call it 'clean' if it seemed like there were enough in it for it to be possibly be messy.

There's a television and a couch and a plant off in the corner that looks like it might be fake and a dog bed but no dog which is a bit disconcerting. George tromps off into the kitchen to get some water-slash-vodka before Nick can see him snooping. Sort of snooping. Just looking, really.

God, it's nice to be standing still. In air conditioning. Drinking water. And not running.

Oh, no, George is going to have to run. Like, properly run, or jog at least, to set a good example, and the last time George moved faster than a brisk walk was when he was in secondary school and everyone laughed at him.

He should definitely have taken the stairs at work.

Or maybe not, maybe it's better he's saving his energy. 

The bottles of clear liquid in Nick's refrigerator are legitimately water, or at least the one George picks up is, so he downs most of it in the hope that it might give him superpowers.

When Nick comes back, he actually seems like he should be the one pretending to be a dietician. He has proper running shorts, at least, or George thinks he does.

This isn't going to go well at all. George wasn't cut out for dieticianing. He's good at fonts. Maybe he should try to bring up fonts, except Jaymi's said that he should never bring up fonts. Maybe George should've brought Jaymi.

No, that would also be terrible. Jaymi would goad him into bringing up fonts just for a laugh.

But Jaymi would at least be able to cue George so that he'd know when to talk. What to say. Jaymi's on the get-George-laid boat, whatever that means.

"Your friend's got a boat tattooed on his arm," George blurts. "Where'd he get it? Jaymi, my friend from last night? He wants a half-sleeve."

Nailed it.

"Far as I know, one of his mates tattooed it on him; he does that a lot." Nick shrugs, unconcerned. "Though, that one's more detailed, he might have had that one done at the place, the one, down the road a bit?"

"Right," George says. He has no idea what place that might be, as needles make him feel sort of queasy. "I'll tell him." He waits a beat and it feels as though the hiccups have ceased. "Are you, erm, did you need to... hydrate?" 

Nick sighs heavily. "Should, shouldn't I? In your proper dietician opinion?" He raises his eyebrows at George.

"Oh, yes," George says. "Have a liter of water before we leave. Erm, a liter of water, and then some stretching."

Oh, god. It's a good thing that George is naturally flexible and does get some practice at least putting his knees behind his ears, thank you, but stretching is not his forte. That one, the butterfly stretch, that is not a good one.

"A whole liter?" Nick seems impressed by George's dieticianing. Or something. "Best get started, then." He crosses the kitchen and nudges George's hip in the process. George almost falls over, but he doesn't, which is good. Very good. George is doing very well, for someone who has no idea what he's doing.

It's a piece of cake being a dietician.

A piece of tofu cake.

"Are you giggling to yourself?" Nick asks curiously as he fills a glass. "Have I invited a half-mad person into my flat?"

"Oh, no, sorry. Uh, dietician humor." George gives Nick a smile in the hopes that it will distract him from the fact that yes, George is half-mad.

Pretending to be a dietician just to maybe get laid by a mostly-stranger is not that mad.

It's _not that mad_ , no matter what the Jaymi in his head thinks.

(Possibly having a Jaymi in his head is a bit mad. George will grant that.)

But in general, mostly, he is not that mad. He just really likes Nick, or what he knows of Nick, and he can damn well pretend to be a dietician until Nick likes him too much to hate him for lying.

It's a good plan, George thinks, as he stands in Nick's kitchen watching Nick drink water.

"So," Nick says, "Do I call your 'doctor'? And if I do, doctor what?"

"You didn't do the thing," George says mournfully.

"That was a conscious choice." Nick has a smirky sort of smile.

"I s'pose you can just call me George, then." George feels a bit sulky now. "If you're not going to do the thing."

"Well, I want to be respectful, if you're a fit young doctor," Nick says. "Are you a fit young doctor, or is being a dietician more like being a chiropractor?"

"Well, it's mostly like being a dietician. I don't know that there's anything really similar." George tries to straighten up and look professional. He never has to look professional for the fonts. "Er, like, I mostly help people concentrate on what they're putting into their bodies, it's not like being a physical trainer exactly. More of a, er. Dietician."

"Yes, I understood that bit," Nick says. "I take it that in your work as a dietician, you mainly work as a dietician?"

"Predominantly, yeah." George smiles at Nick again. A good smile can go a long way, and George knows he's got a pretty good smile.

He should probably have Googled 'dietician school' or something before coming over.

"Right, good. I guess it's nice you're not a plumber on the side or something, like you know, those people who work as eye surgeons out of vans and things." Nick gives a full body shudder. "It's good you're just a, what was it? A dietician."

George wrinkles his nose. "If you're quite done taking the piss, can we get to work?"

Nick holds a hand to his heart in mock-offence, but favors George with a nod. "Yeah, I think I'm about as hydrated as I can be. Ready for some hardcore jogging."

"Good," George says. "We'll, erm, stretch first. In the living room. Follow me."

Nick actually does listen to George, which is a bit of a rush. 

"I feel like I'm sloshing," Nick remarks. "Is that normal?"

Erm. A liter of water may have been a bit much. "Yep. You'll be alright."

Nick looks skeptical, so George continues. "It's just because you're not used to all the hydration. You'll absorb it, promise."

"You're the expert here," Nick allows, even though he still seems a bit dubious about George's expertise.

He still dutifully follows as George leads him through what he can remember from P.E., toe-touches and side-stretches and a few lunges.

"Feels like I'm back in primary school," says Nick. He does another toe-touch as George directs. "Guess they expect you to keep doing it after they've taught you."

"They do," George agrees. "It will keep you quite healthy. But like I said, I'm not really a trainer, this is just to get you started. I'm more of a--"

"Dietician, yes," Nick says. "I gathered."

"Right," George says. He gives Nick a smile from beneath his fringe. "My specialty is more... guiding your eating choices, shopping with you... making breakfast in the morning..."

"So really you're like a professional wife?" Nick asks, giving George a pretty damn good smile of his own if George has got anything to say about it. "If I'd known you could get a degree for that, I'd've done it ages ago."

"Erm," George stumbles. "Not... really. I'm shit at picking out ties."

"Can't have it all. You'll do, I suppose." Nick offers George another smile and a tip of his head, like he hasn't -- what has he -- he's sort of just proposed marriage to George, which, while it's happened before, usually in the street, is actually a bit of an odd occurrence.

Normally George has to do a lot more to get to this point, and usually it's either Jaymi because George has made him some sort of dessert or Josh because George has freed him from some article of clothing he's trapped in.

It has never been the guy from Flat 12A who George is half in love with. He'd remember if this had happened before, and as far as he knows, it hasn't, except in that one dream he had the one time.

Okay, a few times. He's had this dream a few times. One of the times, it was black and white and he looked like Morticia Addams and Nick looked like mostly Nick, but with bolts out of his neck, and they had a skeleton dog like in Corpse Bride and George juiced some people in his juicer. 

It was weird.

Not entirely terrible. But weird.

But Nick is just Nick now with no bolts in his neck and this is perfect except for how Nick still thinks George is a dietician.

Well. He does know well enough not to juice people. Or cake.

Granted, he only learned you shouldn't juice cake yesterday, but we learn, we grow. 

"Right! Jogging." George claps. He's not sure why, it just seems like the thing to do. "Er, have you jogged before? Like, regularly, not just to get to work on time or to catch a bus?"

"Not regularly, but in my lifetime, I have gone jogging," Nick confirms. "Harry has made me, bless his oversize, cholesterol-free heart."

"With all the fruit, and jogging, and that, I'm surprised _he's_ not a dietician." George fake-laughs, because what if dieticians can sense other dieticians, and this Harry can tell George is a fraud?

Nick smiles a little, and it’s a strange smile, but he speaks before George can say anything about it. Not that he would say anything about it. "He's terrible at telling people what to do," Nick says. "He functions best when others tell him."

"Oh, I'm sort of the same way. When I'm not advising people," George quickly amends. "Anyway, that's not important. What's important is jogging! Keep a steady pace, and don't push yourself too hard. You can take along some more water if you want."

Nick looks a little seasick. "Could I bring bread, to soak up the water I already have? And maybe some olive oil and balsamic? Can we skip the jogging and just have a Mediterranean lunch? That's healthy. Little old people from Italy live ages."

"They jog a lot in Italy," George argues. "Come on, you can have a Mediterranean lunch once we get back from jogging."

Nick sort of wilts at that, all of him collapsing a bit besides his hair, but he does follow George out of the kitchen and to the front door. There's a very small dog that rouses suddenly from a deep sleep between cushions on the sofa and comes nosing over curiously; Nick gives it a pat before taking his keys from the hook beside the door.

"You've got a dog," says George, because he's fantastic at stating the obvious.

Nick looks at him askance. "Yes, well, I do have a dog bed, so I thought I might as well get the dog to go with it."

"Well, why don't you just jog with your dog?" George asks. "It even rhymes. Most healthy things rhyme."

"I wouldn't say that, just look at Hannibal Lector." Nick shrugs. "Good point, though, maybe I will take him for a bit of stroll now and again. Can't hurt, can it?"

"I didn't say that all things that rhyme are healthy, just that most healthy things rhyme," George says. "That's called a false syllogism and it doesn't rhyme and will not get you healthy. But yes, you could jog with the dog. Or eat lox with a fox."

"Oooh, false syllogism, learn that in dietician school?" Nick wriggles his fingers at George. "Don't think I will eat lox with a fox; lox gives me tummy pains. And then I wouldn't be able to jog."

Nick has this way about him where even the most ridiculous things sound reasonable coming out of his mouth. George wishes he could do that, it'd make the whole dietician thing easier.

Instead, all he has is giggling, so he ducks his head and giggles as Nick locks up behind him. 

"Shall we jog down the stairs?" Nick asks.

"Erm." That sounds exhausting. "No. We'll stretch first. On the landing. And then walk down the stairs as a warm-up. And then jog outside."

"There's a lot of not-jogging involved in jogging, isn't there?" Nick asks. "Is it like, pre-jogging, like how you've got to prepare for a juice fast?"

"Yes, but I don't recommend jogging on a fast," George says. "You'd be too hungry. But not dehydrated."

"I've never fasted in my life." Nick snorts. "I've just got a mate who likes them, or maybe she just likes juice and needs an excuse to drink loads of it."

"Juice is really good for you!" George enthuses. "I will make you juice after jogging. To get. Electrolytes. And complex carhohydrates. And hydration...s."

"You'll make me juice, will you?" Nick sounds a bit suggestive, but he also sounds like that most of the time, so it might be George's imagination. "Sounds good. Like a good glass of juice."

"Good."

They both stand there a minute, staring at each other. It's sort magical, until Nick says--

"Aren't you going to show me stretching?"

"Stretching!" exclaims George. "Right, you should just get, you know, get the leg muscles ready, nice and... stretched. Like, do some of this." George curls his leg up as far behind him as he can and uses his hands to pull it a little farther. It feels very healthy, stretching. He thinks he just heard his knee pop.

Nick just goes with it, which George is grateful for. He tries to be a bit sexy while he's stretching, but considering he is only selectively flexible, it is only selectively successful. Toe-touches: good. Lunges: not so good.

"Okay, now we've stretched, we can have a walk down the stairs. And then jogging." This is the bit George is actually nervous about. Not the stairs bit, that's fine, but jogging, with his floppy bits, and his non-dietician knowledge.

"Just remember," George says, another landing down, "I'm not a physical trainer, I'm just--"

"A dietician," Nick says. "Yeah, I remember, I got that."

"Making sure!" Maybe if George says the word dietician enough, he'll transform into one. Or, maybe, if he says it enough, a dietician comes through his mirror and makes him into a smoothie. Bloody Dietician. Surely that's not a thing?

"Beetlejuice," George snickers under his breath.

"Sorry, what's that? I don't think I want any sort of beetle in my juice, no matter how high in fiber they are." Nick scrunches up his face. "No, thank you."

"No, like the movie, when you say 'Bee--' you know what? Never mind," George says. "Are you sufficiently stretchy?"

"I'd like to think so. Are there test? Do you need to test my stretchiness?" Nick seems eager to know.

On the one hand, George has no idea how to test whether someone has stretched enough.

On the other, if he says there _is_ a test, he can probably touch Nick.

On the third hand, that might be fraud.

"Er, really, it's something you can only tell for yourself," he decides. He likes Nick, he doesn't want to sleaze all over him.

Nick stretches his arms over his head and George tries not to stare. "I think I'm alright."

"Yes." George coughs. "I mean, uh. Good. Very good. Stairs?"

They plod down the rest of the stairs, and it's probably not all that athletic at all. All the same, George hasn't chosen the stairs over the lift in a very long time, so he is, technically, upping his activity level.

"You know," comments Nick. "If they meant for people to take the stairs, they shouldn't have put a lift in the building."

Privately, George agrees, but that's graphic designer George and not dietician George, who feels compelled to say, "Now that's just defeatist thinking."

Nick gives him a sideways look. "I didn't even know what these stairs looked like before today. Probably not very good, dietician-wise, is that?"

"Probably not great," George agrees. "But I mean, you do look fit, so you must not be that not-fit." Shit.

Nick's smile is equally gratifying and embarrassing. "Oh, really? Do I look fit, dietician-George?"

"Shut up; maybe, I don't know," George mumbles. Finally, the building's landing. The fourth floor is _four fucking flights up_ ; why had no one told him? He's already tired and would really like to lie on the floor and maybe drink some iced coffee. "You look alright."

"Oh, it's just alright now, is it?" Nick's very clearly teasing him. "Make up your mind, am I fit or just alright? You know, I'd like the opinion of an expert dietician."

George scowls. "I'm jogging away," he declares. "Try to keep up."

"I bow to your mastery of jogging." Nick does alright anyway, keeping a good pace alongside George. George wishes he wasn't, because Jaymi was right and he can feel his bits sort of. Bobbing along.

This explains why everyone in the Olympics wore those spandex suits. Maybe George should invest in some spandex. Or at least some jeggings, maybe. Jegging shorts.

Jegging shorts seem like they would chafe, though, and George doesn't want that. Chafing and jogging at the same time? No thanks.

"So," says Nick, his breathing a little heavier as he jogs, "how long've you been a dietician?"

"Since school," George says. "Same as most people have been things that are their jobs after school. How long have you done radio?"

"Since I was about 22," Nick replies. He seems as worn out as George, if not more, and considering Nick's older than him _and_ he smokes, that doesn't exactly boost George's ego much. "So, yeah, not long after school, actually."

"Do people listen to your show?" George isn't actually huffing and puffing yet, but they're probably not far off. How long have they actually been jogging?

"If they didn't, I don't suppose I'd still be employed." Nick looks amused. "I've got a semi-dedicated fanbase, one could say."

George feels a little fluffed up with importance. Nick could, maybe, have hired an _actual_ dietician. Or had dietician fans. George doesn't have any fans. One of his wingding fonts is fairly popular with illegal downloads, but he doesn't think that counts.

It should count. But nobody seems to care about fonts as much as George does.

"What are you daydreaming about, then?" 

George startles and nearly trips over his own left foot. "Fonts."

"Fonts?"

"I mean, fruits," George says quickly. "Potassium and such."

Nick ducks his head sadly. "I suppose I attract people who like fruit more than me." He sighs, shaking his head. "Really, I've accepted it."

"I was thinking about it for you, you dope," George says, and he covers up the first wheeze of Too Much Jogging with a heavy sigh. "For your nutritious dietetic juice when we get back."

"Well, that's a bit useless. I haven't got any fruit. Oh, I might, actually, Harry's always slipping apples and the like into my refrigerator when I'm not looking in the hopes that I'll start eating them." Nick narrows his eyes. "Crafty, he is."

"I have fruit," George offers, "From the market yesterday, after I saw you on the roof, and you can come to mine since I have the juicer anyway."

"Oh, good plan." Nick perks up. "Chances are any fruit that's in my fridge has gone off, anyway. I never eat it, he should give up. You're lucky I'm willing to put fruit in my mouth for you."

"Well, I am your dietician," George says. "I'll only give you good things to put in your mouth, I promise."

"I just bet." Nick might laugh, or he might cough, it's hard to tell. "I'll hold you to that."

George gives him a smile. When he turns his head, he notices that he can't see the flat anymore, so at least they've been jogging a few blocks. That's probably good. They can turn around and go back.

"I think we can go back now. Shouldn't start off too heavily, you know, when you're not used to jogging. You could strain something."

"I'm not that old," Nick mumbles.

"I didn't say you were!" huffs George. "You just, you smoke, and you said you don't jog regularly, so I figured we'd start small, work our way up."

"Well, I suppose if it means I get to curl up and not move for the rest of the day," Nick says.

"You'll have to move to drink your juice," says George primly. "And you're not smoking in my flat, Jaymi stinks it up enough already."

"Oh, but that means he has ashtrays," Nick says. "Lovely. Very convenient."

"No smoking in my flat," George warns, pointing a finger at Nick. "And walk briskly so you don't get a stomach cramp."

"This _is_ briskly," protests Nick, but he does pick up his speed a little bit. "Young woodland sprites like you might not know, but the knees are first to go when you start getting older."

"Ah, yes, well, you can use a basil oil and, erm, red capsicum to ease knee pain?" George guesses. "But that doesn't go in the smoothies. You just, erm, make a pesto."

Nick looks intrigued. "Really? Pesto pain reliever? Sounds dreadfully new age. Sure you don't rub the pesto on the knee like a home remedy from the fourteenth century?"

"Well, you can," George says, "But then your knees smell like pasta. Your puppy would go bonkers and eat your knees."

"Who needs knees? I don't. Nothing but trouble. If I didn't have knees, I wouldn't have to jog." Nick wrinkles his nose. "Maybe it'll get better over time, the jogging experience. Provided I've got, you know, my dietician along to show me a good time."

George sets his jaw and resolutely does _not_ go pink or giggle. He ends up _meep!_ ing a little, as one who is trying to keep from giggling often does, but that's alright.

Nick seems endeared by it, in any case, and that's really what matters here. George is starting to forget (without ever entirely forgetting) that Nick is under the impression that George is a dietician. George is just kind of enjoying Nick's company, but Nick's thinking George is being helpful and not self-serving and awful.

When they finally get back up all those flights of stairs to the flat, George is red-faced and sweaty-haired and has a crimp in his side.

"You alright there, dietician boy?" Nick asks. He's not much better, red at the points of his cheeks and his hair rumpled less attractively than it usually is, but he's clearly well enough to make fun of George. "Need a nap and a juice box?"

"Well, it would be healthy," George retorts. He unlocks the door to the flat and hobbles inside. There's a distinct air freshener smell, and George would scowl if it took fewer face muscles, making a mental note to berate Jaymi later.

Nick can clearly tell, too, because his nose twitches a little and then he tucks his lips in to hide the smile that's appeared on his face. "What sort of smoothies are we looking at, then?" he asks nonchalantly, meandering over to a bookshelf that holds mainly texts on music theory and comics.

"Erm, I'll have to see," George says. He wracks his brain for both the content of his cupboards and the little he remembers about nutrition from Health and Sex Ed. at school. "Erm, protein, for sure, because of muscles. And using muscles."

"Right, of course, the muscles. I'll definitely need some protein for the muscles." Nick nods solemnly. George has the distinct feeling he's being teased some more, but Nick sounds sincere enough, so he lets it go.

George harrumphs a bit, starts toeing out of his running shoes, catches a whiff of his own socks, and puts the shoe back on.

"Hey, is your roommate really obsessed with fonts or something?" Nick asks. His eyes are still scanning the books on the bookshelf. "I thought he was a musician but you've got so many books on typography."

Shit.

Shit bugger damn Papyrus Comic Sans Curlz MT.

"Erm, just they're like, modern art?" George tries. "Pretty, aren't they?"

Nick's looking at him like he's said something ridiculous. "I suppose," he says slowly. "Is it like a hobby, then?"

"Well, typography isn't really a hobby," George says. He tries to keep the bristle out of his voice as he searches the cabinets for--ah, peanut butter. That has protein. "It's really an art, like anything else. Anything else that's an art, anyway. There's some people who are really good at it and the rest have to work at it or it's shit."

"You seem quite passionate about it. Maybe that's your true calling and you shouldn't be a dietician at all," Nick muses. "Or maybe you should develop fonts for dietician textbooks."

Lightbulbs go off in George's head. Sans serif, obviously, wave of the future; maybe some square-edges swashes, OTF, clearly, so that the letters can have just slightly different tones depending on the chapter headings. Protein: blocky. Fruit: slightly playful. Vitamins: quite plain.

"You're drooling," Nick informs him cheerily. He's hopped up on the counter now, swinging his legs so his heels hit the cupboards underneath like he's a massive six-year-old. "Like that idea, do you?"

"I think it would spice up my course of study," George says primly. He fumbles with the juicer and sets it up on the countertop. Peanut butter may well gum up the works, but it might not.

And it's delicious, and it's got protein, and it's either that or the bit of ham that's in the fridge and might've actually gone off by now, so peanut butter it is. Peanut butter's a good smoothie flavor.

Ham is probably not. Although it might be.

"Would you ever want a ham smoothie?" George asks Nick.

Nick gives him another of those looks, like he thinks maybe he's got a madman for a dietician. "That sounds horrific," he says slowly. "Like, on a list of things I definitely don't want to eat, a ham smoothie's right near the top."

"Well, it was just a thought. Got a lot of protein, has ham."

"I can think of better things that have protein," Nick says innocently.

"You're right, peanut butter's definitely better than ham," George admits. "Especially for smoothies. I was trying to be innovative."

"Well, be innovative in ways that aren't disgusting," suggests Nick.

George tries for a suave look but he's not sure it works. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, and then he turns round to plop the peanut butter into the juicer.

"Can you juice peanut butter?" Nick asks. "Seems it's already juiced. I thought that was the whole function of peanut butter."

"Shows what you know about dieticianing." George huffs. It's weird that he's so offended by Nick's lack of faith in him when he _knows_ he's not actually a dietician. "Juicing it breaks down the proteins even more, so they're more. Digestible."

Nick just nods at that and scrubs a hand through his massive quiff. It's toppling a bit from all of the sweat and running.

"Let's see, what else do we have to go in a nice smoothie?" George mutters, digging around in the cupboards. There's rice, which is no good. Neither is canned chicken soup. Looks like he's going to have to go with the fruit they got yesterday.

"Banana?" he offers Nick. "Grapes... a beet, clearly a fruit, as it's red... half an orange; thanks, Jaymi."

"Whatever you think would be best, in your honest dietician's opinion." Nick peers over George's shoulder. "What goes with peanut butter? Bananas are well good, aren't they? Had a peanut butter and banana sandwich or two in my day."

"Yeah, that's good," George says. "Also, chocolate and marshmallows are good, which I have. So... peanut butter, banana, chocolate, marshmallow, beet, and... grapes, I think. That should be all the, erm, vitamins and minerals and such that you need. Essential oils. Monounsaturated calories."

"I don't think monounsaturated is a real word, I think you're making that up." Despite his words, Nick's smile is growing again.

"It is real," George protests. "There's, erm... there's polysaturated and there's trans fats and there's monounsaturated fats. Which are calorific. That's what's in the peanut butter. Trans fats are in chips."

"Well, let's not put any chips in the smoothie, then." Nick bobs his head in another nod. "Sounds awful, anyway, a chip smoothie."

That it does. Something about wet potatoes gives George the willies.

"You're going to juice all that, then?" asks Nick, nodding at the pile of things George has accumulated next to the juicer.

"Yes," George says with great determination. "It will be good. Get some ice from the freezer for me, will you?"

"Yes, sir," Nick murmurs, slipping off of the counter to dig in the freezer for ice. "I hope this is as refreshing as it is healthy."

"Well," George equivocates, "It'll be cold."

"As good as anything else, I suppose." Nick pops ice cubes into George's cupped palms when he holds them out, then returns the tray to the freezer.

George feeds the peanut butter into the juicer first, and then the ice.

It makes such an awful noise that George wants to cover his ears, but he can't because he's juicing.

"That's horrific," Nick says.

"Healthy," George argues, feeding the banana through the juicer.

"Horrific," repeats Nick. He'd had no qualms about putting his hands over his ears, and he lowers them carefully. "Sounds like you're murdering a small robot."

George takes umbrage at that. "I would never! Sweet little robots."

"Robot murderer," Nick counters. "It's always the nice ones going home and terrorizing the robots of the world."

George harrumphs and vengefully drops the grapes through the juicer. It does seem to be struggling, and it has a motor, so maybe he _is_ sort of murdering a small robot.

"Do all juicers sound like this? Is this normal?" asks Nick. "I might not want one, then, if it always sounds so..." He pauses for a moment, clearly trying to think of a word. "... wheezy."

"I might have done better to put the peanut butter through last," George admits. "It's sort of coated the insides."

"You'd think you would know better, as a master of dieticianry." Nick squints at the juicer. "I think it's about to keel over."

"It'll make it," George insists, shoving the last of the orange through. "We'll just float the marshmallows on top. The beet got in there; that's the important part, anyway."

"Oh, is that why it looks so... cannibalistic?"

"It looks healthy and delicious." George gives the mixture another solid punch of juicing action before he lets it slow to a stop. "Perfect. Love a good smoothie."

He chucks a handful of marshmallows on top of each glass. They don't float cheerily, or melt comfortingly like the top of a hot chocolate. They sink, instead, slowly, buoyed by the thickness of the smoothie, the white disappearing under an opaque sea of red like an episode of _Game of Thrones_.

They both remain silent as they watch the marshmallows sink in the glasses.

"Well, I'm thoroughly disgusted," announces Nick after a moment.

"It'll be fine," George encourages. His stomach gives a twinge. "Come on. To health!"

Nick lets out a whoosh of air and tips his glass in a toast to George. "Bottoms up, then, I suppose. If I die, tell Harry to fuck off and he can't have any of my records."

George nods and raises his glass to his lips. Nick hesitates, then plugs his nose.

"It'll be good!" George protests, taking a gulp of his own to prove it, and forgetting that he's not a dietician and he does not in any way know that this is going to be good.

It isn't.

It's not good.

It's not... _bad_.

It's terrible.

George does his best to keep a straight face, and swallows as well as he can when he wants to spit everywhere.

He's rather good at it, if he does say so himself.

Nick's looking at his face very closely, though, and has yet to take any sort of drink from his glass, which George doesn't think is very fair. "You're a bit green," Nick says shrewdly. "Are you going to be sick everywhere?"

George shakes his head. "Choked on a marshmallow?" he guesses.

"Hmm." Nick takes another deep breath and takes a drink, carefully, just a sip of it. He immediately cringes.

George watches in horror as Quiffy Nick from 12A seems to wither and crumple and die right in the middle of George's kitchen.

He points an accusatory finger at George even as he's writhing practically on the floor. " _You can't juice peanut butter_ ," he says threateningly.

"It's juiced, isn't it?" George asks. His throat feels scratchy. "It's smooth! And cold! I never promised anything else!"

"You said you were a dietician, not a killer!" exclaims Nick. He seems to be trying to pull his tongue out of his head with his fingers. "I'll never be the same again."

"I'm not a killer!" George wails. This is the worst. Nick is never going to want to come over again, not with a flat full of books about fonts and being so bad at running and now the the the _death smoothie_. George sits on the floor, too. "I'm just... also not a dietician."

Nick is leaned up back against the cupboards under the sink, and he doesn't even look a little bit surprised. "D'you think?" he squawks.

George is sort of insulted that it isn't more shocking.

"If you were a dietician," Nick grumbles, "you're the worst dietician there's ever been. The worst. I could've _died_."

"You couldn't've really died," George says crotchily. "It's not like anything I put in it isn't food."

"Whatever that is, it isn't food." Nick waves his hand toward the discarded glass up on the counter. "It's -- It's -- It's diabolical, that's what it is. An abomination."

"It's just a smoothie," George mutters. He curls up on the floor, because why the fuck not? Nick is, and anyway, he wants to curl up fetal for a bit until Jaymi gets home and can console him about both damaging his body with running and health food _and_ ruining everything with the corridor cutie of his dreams.

He hears Nick sigh. "You know, I've been pretty sure you weren't a dietician since, like, last night?" he asks conversationally. "I know dieticians, and while none of them have managed to rub off on me, they're very clearly dieticians."

"I'm not that unhealthy." George wraps an arm around his knees. "Not so as you'd notice, anyway."

"Nah, you're not, you're really fit, that's what I'm saying." Nick pays no mind to the way George's head pops up. "I wouldn't let just anyone pretend to be a dietician around me."

George squeaks.

Nick just seems amused now, even if he keeps smacking his lips like he's trying to get the taste out of his mouth. "I thought, there must be a reason fit bloke from upstairs would want to pretend to be a dietician in order to get me to go jogging with him."

"I--I--I--like... health," George says lamely. "I think everyone should have... health."

Nick rolls his eyes. "Oh, health, is it? My mistake, I thought it might've been me, with all the staring and the doe eyes and the flirting."

George squeaks again and then it makes him burp and it tastes like smoothie and feels like hell hath swallowed him whole and he's landed in the circle of Embarrassment.

"I need water," announces Nick, popping over the refrigerator next to him and pulling out a bottle of water. He offers it to George, first, which is actually quite kind of him.

George takes it, cautiously. He has to sit up to drink it without spilling down his chin, too, so he does, looking up at Nick from beneath his eyelashes.

"There you go again," murmurs Nick, tilting his head against the cupboard and giving George a look that's difficult to decipher. "You've been doing things like that all day and it's been driving me mad."

"It's just my face!"

"Exactly!" Nick nods enthusiastically. "It's terrible, it's so terrible. I just can't stop looking at it. You can't have got to this age without being aware of what your face looks like, can you?"

George frowns. It's probably a pout. That's just how his terrible, terrible face works.

"Stop that right now," Nick orders. "Or I'll be forced to do something drastic."

George keeps pouting, but pushes himself upright. "Well, I'm sorry for extending the services of my juicer and a jog and imposing on your time. I'm going to go console myself with the Rosetta Font Foundry."

"You're a bit thick, aren't you?" Nick wants to know. "Think, George, about why I would accept your services as a dietician _when i knew you weren't a dietician_."

George blinks, and he thinks. "You're in love with Jaymi, aren't you?"

Nick rubs his forehead. "Alright, _very_ thick." He looks up at George, exasperated. "I _like you_ , and I like your face, and I wanted to spend some time with you."

George hesitates in spatuling the smoothie out of his glass. It's shockingly loud and solid as it hits the sink basin.

He can hear Nick getting to his feet as well, behind him, though he doesn't turn around to look. "I just thought," says Nick, "that you're really cute when you're fumbling around for words and pretending you know things."

"Monounsaturated _is_ a word," George says. "It's the good cholesterol, which is fat, which is caloric. I'm pretty sure."

"Are you really like a biochemist, then?" Nick inquires, leaning against the sink so close to George that their hips are sort of touching. "I mean, what do I know? Not like I'm a dietician or anything. I barely ever listen while Harry talks."

"Is Harry a biochemist?" George is surprised. Harry never struck him as a biochemist, although he supposes they can't all look like Amy Farrah Fowler.

"No." Nick's back to looking amused. "He's a dietician."

George fairly _meep!_ s again. It's the only sound in the room.

"Do you see where I'm going with this?" asks Nick. He raises his eyebrows. "Please say you see where I'm going with this."

The thing is, with George's face, George has thought many times before that people are going to the place where he thinks and hopes Nick may be going, and he has been as wrong about that as he's been about the smoothies.

"Give me a hint?" he asks hopefully, and Nick rolls his eyes, curls long fingers around the back of George's neck, and kisses him. It's kind of awesome.

Except he tastes like smoothie.


End file.
